I am here to be,
her shadow,
hidden, in a widow.
Her dark in death,
mysterious,
fallen into star.
A pastlife scar,
you,
my beautiful wife,
thats who you are.

I was the bow to her arrow,
as the trees danced around us
Leaves, wild and flushed in pink,
scattered like stars across
the symphony of our night
I was the zebra of the horse,
the clay soaked by rain,
the pulse of creation’s first breath
They bloomed endlessly,
over and over,
in shades of green, pink, and red
I was the Easter of her spirit,
the fruit born from death

Pain is the shadow of existence,
a reminder that life, with all its beauty, is often intertwined
with the silence of death.

Always in all ways,
and yet, past Noontime,
the end begins again.
Nothing feels the same
as a fairy
and I dream what I am.
The Moon is not alone;
one star, more than two,
beyond the Ocean of the sea,
one, two, three, stars that I see.

Is there a light in the world
that can shed clarity
on these questions?

My voice sounds sorrowful,
as if it’s weeping in the silence
that has been stolen,
never fully closed off,
and unable to share what is real.

In thought, one might ponder:
How can I inflict harm
with forbidden words
while tearing apart
from what I truly desire?

Secrets are etched in books,
captured between lines,
frozen in a soft revelation.
I am trapped in thoughts.
The sorrow of a trusted one
who has been deceived.

And then... I realize I have changed
and taken leave of a chill
that lies deep beneath,
but never revealed.

I ask: is this who I truly see?
Always revisiting earlier questions,
one wonders who we were now,
in the present.

With every breath comes the question:
If everything becomes later,
and stopping only continues
to move forward,
will we proceed incomprehensibly?